


Play the Prodigal Son

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bad Touch Chancellor, Blackmail, Compromise, Fondling Through Clothes, Force-Feeding, God Complex, M/M, Mild Threat, No Sex, Religious Metaphors, non-consensual lap sitting, non-consensual petting, there's my favourite tag, there's no nakedness but nonetheless please proceed with caution, worship kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 16:32:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: Ardyn is the kind of man who longs for sweet things, but only because he wants his perverse re-enactments, someone to share his suffering with. He's marked Prompto for this, and knows he would suffer so beautifully, but for now, he must play his cards well.An Ardyn-POV telling of what went down at the caravan, before the encounter with Titan  |  An FFXV kinkmeme fill





	

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for this request on the FFXV Kinkmeme:  
> https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3016.html?thread=1605320#cmt1605320
> 
> Hope you enjoy, Anon-chan who made me aware of this~
> 
>  
> 
> \------  
> title taken from the song 'Guilt' by Seigmen
> 
> \------

Ardyn is a jealous man, and he has waited a long time, like nobody would believe. He can feel it beneath his skin, the rush of his plans drawing toward completion. At night, when he closes his eyes, he sees visions of exultation. He knows he will be worshipped again, but it won’t be like the first time. No, he’s no longer immaculate, but that’s okay. Purity doesn’t get anyone very far.

        He ponders more on purity as he watches the blond boy. Skinny frame too easy to grab, all terse muscle and no fat, lean like the meat he’s eating. He’s sitting to the left of him - _the left hand of God, oh how little he knows it_ \- and he’s talking to his friends and his voice is so, so sweet.

        Ardyn is the kind of man who longs for sweet things, but only because he wants his perverse re-enactments, someone to share his suffering with. The boy would suffer so beautifully, he knows this, as surely as he knows he will eventually win, and once that pale freckled skin is marked and his suffering begins, he also knows it will bring them closer together.

        He wants to be a burning star, locked in a binary system with an equally blazing twin, as they die out together and turn supernova. He is eclipsed by the need to drag the boy down with him as he shows the world his splendour.

        It’s almost painful to wait, being so close to the finish line now after centuries of biding his time. He could throw all caution to the wind and just grab the boy, bend him over the cheap plastic camping table and take him, right there, right then, but he knows better. He knows something about the boy that nobody else does. Knowledge has always been his strongest card, and it’s almost time to lay it on the table. 

        And here, the voice of treason, drawling low and bored and ruining his good mood.

        ‘C’mon Prompto, you gonna finish your food or what?’ Noctis, the _fake_ prince, the _undeserving_ prince, is distracting his target, turning that pretty head further away. He could reach out right now and rake back that spiked honey hair, and he feels his fingers flex as he imagines this, but he holds back.

        ‘Just gimme a bit longer, okay?’ Prompto says, rubbing his temple, the spikes of his fringe moving aside and teasing a glimpse of his sharp cheekbones. The outpost owners have set up garden lamps everywhere and one is stood to the boy’s other side. It makes a halo glow around his hair. Now Ardyn thinks of the royal surname, _Caelum_. It means _heaven_ , and this boy would be far more deserving of the title than Noctis. But he says nothing. At this stage in the game, none of them know who he really is. He’s just a stranger offering dubious help, and they have no choice.

        Noctis heads inside, following the lead of his practical-minded advisor. The caravan is no royal palace, and there’s washing to be done. Soon, a quiet argument kicks up and there’s the sound of pots and pans knocking together within the caravan. Not too loud, but loud enough to interrupt the stillness. The big guy, Gladiolus, has disappeared. There’s the distant but slick sound of scraping steel: he’s sharpening his sword at the whetstone over by the Hunters’ tent. 

        Prompto’s looking troubled, and Ardyn decides to begin the game. He does so love to play. First, he must build the tension.

        The Royal Advisor makes good coffee. Ardyn sips, taking his time. Beside him the boy gulps his own drink down, all too fast, and he finds this awkward act quite delightful. The poor beauty is so very anxious.

        The sounds of washing up and idle, frustrated chatter are the only thing to reach them from the caravan’s kitchen. Nobody is paying attention. Now it’s all about how much he can get away with.

        ‘What did they call you?’ He speaks abruptly, drawing the instant gaze of the boy and by the time those perfect blue eyes are fixed on him, he leans in and tightens the noose. ‘Quicksilver, was it?’

        Oh, he looks scared, the poor lad.

        ‘I… think you heard wrong.’

        Ardyn raises an eyebrow, draws out the moment in uncomfortable quiet, until the boy feels compelled to speak again.

        ‘My name’s Prompto.’ 

        Still Ardyn says nothing, letting his smile do all the work. The boy is thrown off, and he pushes his plate away, starts getting up from his chair. His stomach is gurgling - all that stress must be making his hunger worse. And yet he’s uncomfortable enough to throw that lovingly-prepared food away.

        Ardyn refuses to budge. Fenced in by the campsite refuse bin and the standing lamp to his left, Prompto is forced to choose the long way round, squeezing awkwardly past the man’s legs. The table is really too close - what a shame - and it’s when he’s mid-step and off-balance that Ardyn decides to sweep him backwards and draw him onto his lap in a satisfying, friendly, yet possessive hold.

        The boy yelps from the shock, and the plastic chair creaks. He looks ready to struggle and make a fuss, and he’s opening his mouth like he’s about to swear, but what Ardyn says next stops him in his tracks.

        ‘The ink on your skin would appear to disagree.’

         The result of his words is quite simply picture-perfect. Prompto’s face is a blank slate, receiving and amplifying every emotion that passes over it. He’s truly living in every moment, heart written plainly on his sleeve, and Ardyn wants to disorder those moments, jumble them up, confuse him and watch him unravel.

        He starts by running a hand round the supple dip of the boy’s side, so lightly he’s just grazing the fabric of his top. He knows his hands are warm, he knows this must be confusing. It makes him stir inside. Then he slides down, towards the crotch, and idly plays with the zipper of Prompto’s jeans, just casually fumbling around, making no attempt to get inside. Neither is he pressing all that hard, it’s just enough to make him aware of the position.

        Prompto wriggles and stutters and tells him to stop, and for a second Ardyn grips hard over his crotch. This stills him into frozen silence and this makes Ardyn wonder; the boy is twenty years old, has nobody ever touched him before?

        Ardyn relaxes his grip. He decides he really likes having him in his arms this way. He fondles the buttons on Prompto’s jacket with one hand, returns to playing with his zipper with the other. He’s not doing it to get off, although he wouldn’t say no to that if presented with the opportunity. No, he just wants a reaction. He needs to see the conflict on the young man’s face and know he’s the cause of it. He wants that expression to return every time they meet in the future, because that _will_ happen, he’s planned it all out, and he wants the tension to twist the air around them into something poisonous and electric every single time.

        Prompto’s eyebrows knit upwards while the corners of his mouth turn down. His jaw is tightening, cheeks hollowing out, blood vessels rising to the surface, painting a flush around those dappled freckles. Ardyn laughs softly into the cool night air. Something so pristine is so easy to stain.

        He uses his real name again, his Niflheim name, and he says, ‘Don’t you worry - your secret’s safe with me. If you behave.’

        ‘Let me go,’ Prompto says quietly. He doesn’t struggle now. Ardyn can see it in his eyes - he cares far too much about his immigrant status. This is good: the ones with the most to lose always make the best believers.

        ‘First,’ Ardyn says, taking the time to pat him softly on the chest, ‘you must make sure you don’t go hungry.’ He feels the sparkle come back into his eyes and he leans forward as much as he is able, pulls the half-finished bowl of stewed meat and rice towards them. He hefts a good clump onto the fork and when he hears Prompto whisper ‘Seriously?’ he has to laugh, although he keeps it light, discreet. ‘I absolutely mean it,’ he replies. ‘You’ll be needing your strength in the battles to come.’ He makes sure to drip some suggestion into the words, to make it seem like it’s about more than just fighting. Which, of course, it is.

        He feels a tremulous sense of elation when he brings the fork close and watches Prompto part his tight-held lips, hesitantly at first, then wider until it’s enough to take the fork inside. Ardyn feels his nerves thrum and he thinks now this, this is holy communion. He consecrates the young man with his offering, fingers still toying with stiff denim while he pulls the fork out oh so slowly, and waits for him to swallow.

        Once the mouthful is gone, he feels Prompto shiver and he knows he’s not enjoying it, but before the boy has opportunity to plead again, Ardyn pushes him up and off his lap. The sudden cold that envelops his thigh in place of the boy’s buttock is regrettable, but necessary. He can’t leave it too long or the confusion won’t be anywhere near as effective.

        ‘Very good,’ he murmurs. He gives Prompto a light pat on the rump, enjoying the shocked, disgruntled sound he gets in return. The boy fumbles his way round the table, moving too quickly in his rush to put space between them, and his boots tangle in camping gear and table legs. Ardyn doesn’t hide his smile.

        Prompto’s stuttering again and he is all the cuter for it. He tells Ardyn to stay away.

        Ardyn goes back to his coffee like nothing has happened. He’s all fired up inside from his indulgent moment, but he’s had enough practise to not let any of it show, not a tremor of the hands, not a flush of the cheeks. He sips, not taking his eyes off his target.

        ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

        He enjoys the conflict in his target’s eyes. Prompto makes sounds that are more squeaks than words, mouth open, distress amplified on that resonant face. Then he darts away, all lithe limbs and dark denim, and Ardyn settles back into his chair. He’s played his game well. Tomorrow he shall take Noctis to fight the Archaean, spur the prince on to the next step of the journey, and again he closes his eyes, sees the splendour blaze, the promise being fulfilled. Prompto is the unexpected centrepiece: the destruction of this boy made of light and innocence is yet to come, and it will be a perfect herald to the breaking darkness.


End file.
